


the melting peach, the nectarine smooth

by Zsazsa4



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sort Of, and that botulism isn't an unforeseen consequence of midnight assignation, anyway let's hope the solder on that particular tin was intact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25712110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zsazsa4/pseuds/Zsazsa4
Summary: 'It was never too difficult to steal out of the stores, only almost never worth it.There hadn't been much that appealed; he hadn't been taken with the tins of stewed vegetables. But then he saw them, the peaches; wondered if someone had been saving them. Meant for better days, leisurely dinners and perhaps a glass of brandy. And why shouldn’t they have them, now?'Hickey and Tozer share a midnight feast.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	the melting peach, the nectarine smooth

It was never too difficult to steal out of the stores, only almost never worth it. He’d not tried it on the ship, the systems of overseeing and accounting too unfamiliar. But with everything stuck in a tent and watched with growing anxiety but less and less enthusiasm, it wasn’t too hard. There hadn't been much that appealed; he hadn't been taken with the tins of stewed vegetables. But then he saw them, the peaches; wondered if someone had been saving the tin. No matter, he'd put it to better use. Good to keep his hand in, anyway. He knew that Tozer was on second watch, fitfully passed in and out of sleep until he judged the time was about right. Sidled up to him where he was leaning, alone, tried to pass him the tin of peaches. He'd been carrying it around under his shirt to try to melt it. 

Any man who claimed to be indifferent to food, who disowned his appetite, was a liar. He had never gone hungry and didn’t know any better; or, if he thought the core of himself unbecoming, well, everyone's was but it would have its way whether you liked it or not. The man who was now Cornelius Hickey knew that all men are ruled by their appetites whether they think it of themselves or not. It was simply a matter of satisfying your lowest self so that it might, for a moment, be quiet. And he had been fed, more and often better than he’d ever had. No longer, though. The desires of that reawakened animal self made a queer cacophony with what the luxury of good feed had awakened in him. ‘Not on the ship, I only do it on shore,’ Tozer had said again and again until Hickey at last persuaded him. He clearly wasn’t a stranger to men but he wasn’t used to turn and turn about, and had to be coaxed. Hands down trousers only, and Hickey had to finish himself off, but it had been a start. And now they were certainly on shore, and Hickey did not think they’d ever be aboard again. 

‘You’ll have to do better than that, if you want to buy me.’ Not so true; almost any of them would have done almost anything for even an extra bite. But Tozer still didn't trust Hickey. It frustrated him but he knew that it didn't matter, that soon he would have to. More than that, would choose to, would be pleased to. 

‘Just a gift,’ Hickey promised. A ring had worked on Billy but he knew Tozer would take exception to that. A different kind of greed, there. ‘A treat,’ he tried again, when that didn’t work. ‘Between friends.’ 

Tozer snorted but gave in. Rum might have worked easier, but Hickey had rather fancied the peaches. He’d once seen a vast tower of fresh peaches atop a big glass bowl full of ice in a shop window, duskily pink and enticing against the crystalline glitter. He'd passed by quickly, no point staring in the window, yet here he was tucking into them after all. Meant for better days, leisurely dinners and perhaps a glass of brandy. And why shouldn’t they have them, now?

Getting the tins open always involved a good deal of buggering about, smashing or sawing the lids off. They fished out the slices of peaches, avoiding the sharp ragged edges of the tin, and ate them off a knife. Each slice was jewel bright, some a little tough and dry, fibrous, but they went down easily enough. It made a change to have something with a little bite, a little resistance. They didn't taste much like a peach, or so Tozer said. Hickey had never had one, and Tozer explained to him that they were not so firmly fleshed as a plum, but pale and bright in both taste and colour, juicier, sweeter, with a fuzz to the outside.

Tozer was never dismayed or scornful at any show of ignorance; he simply related what he knew, whether it was not much more or nothing at all, as a matter of course, and took some pleasure in the telling. Hickey had first raged at it as showing off, then admired it, before he came to himself and realised that although Tozer might have seen more he was not a better man, not cleverer one. But he appreciated the kindness, even though it wasn’t within Tozer’s right to give. He wondered when Tozer had that single bite of a peach which he still remembered. He wondered whether in not very different circumstances he might have ended up like Tozer, seen a different sea, had a bite of a fresh peach himself. But then Tozer was a working man and, as he liked to remind himself, Hickey had never done an honest day's work in his life, or not willingly. Peach or no peach the slices were syrupy and sticky, sugar like neither of them had had in years. Officer food; all gone, now. 

Tozer ran his finger round the inside of the tin, gingerly, avoiding its vicious edges. Desperate enough for something that he'd risk getting cut, a cut that wouldn't heal. ‘Girl that I knew, back in England. I’d roll in and I’d wait if she were seeing someone and then we’d go to bed. Once in a while she’d fry us an egg, toast some bread. Nothing better after a few drinks.’

He looked all dreamy, soppy old sod that he was. Hickey suspected it was over the food and not the whore. But the thought of it took his fancy, Tozer with butter and egg yolk shining on his lips, glistening on his mouth.

He took hold of Tozer’s jaw, gently. Rubbed a thumb along his bottom lip. ‘Would you like to do something for me?’

‘Oh, I see. Not just a meal between friends, then?’

‘Exactly that. Go on, do it for me, it won't be sweet but it'll be something.’

Tozer squinted at him, as if he thought Hickey was playing a trick. ‘Funny come-on. Any girl ever fall for it?’

If he wanted it like that. ‘I don’t know. Have they?’ He pressed his thumb tighter into Tozer’s lip, felt his teeth through it. They seemed sturdy enough. 

‘All right,’ he said, almost comically solemn, and went to his knees awkwardly, first one then the other. 

‘Don't tell me you need me to do it for you,’ Hickey said, when Tozer fumbled with his buttons through his gloves. 

‘Do you want it or not?’ Tozer said, glaring up at him. 

He was tentative about it, licking and sucking at the tip until Hickey had enough and eased himself in further. ‘Oh come on, don't act like it's the first prick you've ever sucked,’ he said. He thrust into Tozer’s mouth, into his throat, felt him swallow and try not to cough, then went further so that Tozer’s nose was pressed up against him. ‘You do take it well. Knew you'd done it before.’

He caught hold of his hair, not too hard, not hard enough to spook him but enough for him to feel it. ‘This how the girls on Paradise Street do it? I suppose you can take the lad out of Liverpool.’ When he looked down Tozer’s eyes were shut, screwed tight shut. Spit ran down his chin and he breathed heavily, laboured, through his nose. He clutched at the back of Hickey’s thighs.

‘You did tell me you'd worked on the docks,’ he tried out. Didn't think it was doing this, though,’ and noted with satisfaction that Tozer brought a hand down to palm himself. Let him, this time. He'd had it more skilful and practised, yes, but he liked that Tozer let him thrust into the wet heat of his mouth, liked that Tozer let himself be fucked and moved about. It was, certainly, promising. He tightened his hand in Tozer’s hair, pulling him back so that he spilled partly into his mouth and partly onto his lips and chin, painting him with it. Tozer gaped at him, shocked, then set his mouth in a tight line as he scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand. It had been worth it, though. 

Tozer got to his feet while Hickey tucked himself away, leaned against a post. He wrapped an arm around Hickey, drawing him against his chest. A pearl of spunk shone at the corner of his mouth. ‘I ought to smack you for that,’ he said, but Hickey could see how hard he was, trousers bulging. 

‘Little tart,’ Hickey said, affable and affectionate, running a hand through Tozer's hair as the other freed his prick. His fat cock, already leaking plentifully. ‘And why wouldn't you be, lovely big lad like you. Bet the girls even gave it you for free sometimes. Come on, I want to feel what you’re like back here, bet you're right hairy.’ 

Tozer squirmed and panted as he reached down, searching between Tozer’s cheeks, twisting his hand to stroke his hole, feeling it clench and Tozer’s thighs twitch. He was, as Hickey had thought, well furred, and he stroked and played with him with a mixture of interest and pleasure. Tozer’s face was flushed pink, ashamed or pleased or both, and Hickey wanted to get him out of his coat, see if it spread down his chest. 

‘Get off, you’ve had yours,’ Tozer said, ‘Besides I don’t do that.’ But his cock was heavy and leaking in Hickey’s other hand, glistening wet at the tip. 

Hickey murmured below his ear, at the rough hair of his beard. ‘Mm, but would you like to?’  
He would have liked a bed, to lay Tozer out and take his time with him. You wouldn't have thought it to look at him but Tozer was pleasingly responsive under his hands, trembling and shifting, hips jumping at any stroke, twist or pinch, stifling little groans and gasps. ‘Want me to get my hand right in your cunt but you'll have to make do with this. Hush up.’ He rubbed at the tight ring of muscle so that Tozer almost whined, teasing his cock with his other hand. 

‘For Christ's sake, get on with it,’ Tozer gritted out. 

‘Seems to me like you're enjoying yourself, ‘ Hickey said, but he sped up his hand, slicking the head of Tozer’s cock, pink and achingly hard. 

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘hellfire,’ and buried his face in Hickey’s shoulder. Hickey pressed at his arse, almost hard enough to slip a finger inside, felt Tozer tighten and clench as he came. 

‘We'll do that properly, next time,’ he said, wiping his hand on the inside of his trouser leg. 

‘Oh, we will, will we?’ Tozer said, shaking his head. ‘You've got some front.’ 

‘I’ll make it good for you,’ Hickey said. ‘I will.’ They stood in silence a short while, until Hickey’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘Why only on shore?’ 

Tozer was baffled. ‘You what?’

‘Why did you only do it on shore. You told me that.’

‘Did I? Don't know. Less risky, even if you don’t get caught everyone knows about it. You don’t want a reputation for it, either, makes life harder.’ As you well know, he didn’t say.

‘That’s it? That’s why?’

‘I told you, I don’t even remember saying it. I’m only supposing.’ Tozer squeezed Hickey’s waist sharply through his coat, hard enough to hurt, left his hand there. ‘I ought to tell you to be off, but we have a minute. Cornelius?’ 

He nodded, absently, patted Tozer’s hand. ‘I'll stay a while. You want to wipe your mouth, love.’

He was bitterly, sharply disappointed. There must be more to it than that - it had seemed some great mystery loaded with obscure significance. It was in Tozer, surely, but the problem was that he couldn’t see it, that his interior self was unexplored. He'd said himself that he didn't remember, that his interpretation was wrong. He needed Hickey to read him. Hickey could make something out of his crude, unformed substance, which would be useful to Hickey and would probably be for Tozer’s own good. And if it had to be dragged out of him, if he had to be beaten into shape, licked and swatted like a newborn kitten - well, he'd thank him in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Anna Laetitia Barbauld’s [lusciously kitsch poem about an ice house.](https://www.english.upenn.edu/~mgamer/Etexts/barbauld.html#10)
> 
> [Come talk to me on tumblr, @roaringgirl](https://roaringgirl.tumblr.com)


End file.
